In Afghanistan
by Cassandra or Bonkers pehaps
Summary: In Afghanistan Michael stands or sits in crowded markets wearing a burqa, because whatever else it might be or might represent, a burqa is a very convenient disguise for a spy; you can hide a lot, under a burqa.     A take on Michael's time in Afghanistan


Michael Westen says yes to Afghanistan at least in part because his life is in shambles. Before Afghanistan, there had been Fiona, the IRA asset who wasn't even supposed to be an asset at first, and who so quickly became so much more. Michael Westen had lost himself in Fiona, lost control and felt more than he'd ever thought he was capable of feeling. He had been happy with her, unconditionally happy even if only for a few moments between ops and arms deals and everything else. In the end, he had left as he left everything else, suddenly and without so much as a note, hoping she would move on, that it wouldn't hurt her the way it hurt him. Michael knew he would probably never see her again, and that if he did she'd probably murder him. He tried to tell himself it was all for the best.

Before Afghanistan he had come back to Sam, that wonderful thief who'd waited for him all those months, who never questioned his need for secrecy or his job and in turn never spoke of hers. It was after he laid by her side, night after night, and all the while he couldn't stop thinking about Fiona, missing Fiona, wanting Fiona, dreaming of Fiona. He gave it a month and then broke it off with Sam, ended everything, trying to be kind, not answering any of her questions. Michael could barely stand the hurt, the confusion in her eyes, but it was better this way. It wouldn't be fair to Sam, to anyone, to marry her when he couldn't stop thinking about another woman. It wasn't right and she deserved better than that, than him. He ended it and quite suddenly it was two women, two lovers that he had lost and now he was alone again, had returned to his default, natural state of existence.

_Every spy learns early on not to form attachments. If you're the kind of person who tends to get very close, intelligence work is probably not for you. When you work in intelligence, getting attached is usually just a surefire way of getting hurt. _

Afghanistan, then, is an out for him as much as it is a chance to carry out some very important, very high priority, very covert work for his country. Afghanistan is a chance to lose himself in a deep-cover mission, something dangerous enough that distractions (like moping over failed relationships) wouldn't exactly be a luxury he could afford. Afghanistan is a challenge, a chance to really put all the effort he'd invested into his language skills to use, and a chance to really do the kind of work he'd signed up for when he first joined the military at seventeen. True to the reputation he'd already developed, Michael Westen does not hesitate to agree when offered the op in Afghanistan. Within a week he is on a black flight to Peshawar.

Afghanistan, it turns out, is much more and much less than it is made out to be. Afghanistan is beautiful, its landscape dominated by the majestic Hindu Kush mountains, its valleys green and sometimes flowering, great blooming fields of red, yellow, white; and it is treacherous, its soil riddled with twenty-year old landmines, it warlords awash with foreign money and guns, those beautiful fields filled with opium poppies as often as not. There is a war going on in Afghanistan, another in a long string of conflicts that'd haunted the country for nearly three decades. There are American troops and Nato troops dying in Afghanistan, and half a dozen warlords with militias, and Taliban fighters stubbornly resisting international forces, and a handful of al-Qaeda operatives that hadn't managed to get caught or get out of the country, and there is Michael Westen, crawling over the Pakistani border on a deep cover black op.

In Afghanistan, Michael calls himself Marwan. He grows a beard and dresses like the rest of the group of Northern Alliance fighters is travelling with (when he isn't going off by himself for days at a time). After the first couple of months, once he manages to get a good grasp on his Dari accent, it becomes a very effective disguise. _One thing about blending in that even the best-trained operative can't get around is location: some places more are homogenous than others. If you want to blend in as a native and you are in say, Japan or Finland, you're pretty much out of luck. In other places, where the natives themselves are quite diverse, it's much easier. Fortunately, Afghanistan falls in the latter category._ His sometimes-companions, such as they are, know that he is an American (in Afghanistan, even the best-made cover identity can only get you so far), but they are well-compensated for their "assistance," and helping a covert operative is still quite a bit safer than helping unformed troops; they keep his secret as much for their own safety as anything else.

In Afghanistan Michael sits in little caves in the mountains for days on end, keeping track of minute movements, making reports and occasionally, when the opportunity arises, playing sniper with weapons that are quite far from the most up-to-date in military technology; some, he would hazard to guess, are almost as old as he is. In Afghanistan Michael learns to be judicious in his use of grenades: throw rocks first, to make your targets confused, so they don't run right away when the real thing falls by their feet. In Afghanistan Michael stands or sits in crowded markets wearing a burqa, because whatever else it might be or might represent, a burqa is a very convenient disguise for a spy; you can hide a lot, under a burqa.

In Afghanistan Michael learns that his sometimes comrades-in-arms aren't nearly as different from the Taliban they were fighting as his government would like to believe. He learns that many aren't exactly opposed to burqas and aren't exactly pleased to have the boots of foreign troops on their soil again. Most of them, the older ones at least, had been mujahedeen, had fought against the Soviets in the 80's and have stories and scars and distrust to show for it. Their differences with the Taliban are as much ethnic (they are Tajik, Uzbek mostly, the Taliban Pashtu) as anything else and their alliance with the Americans cold pragmatism; the leader reminds him of Larry, dead Larry (he thinks, with a twinge of regret), for reasons he can't quite put his finger on. Nevertheless, after the first good shared firefight they seem to accept this Marwan, more or less. He eats and drinks and pisses and sleeps with them. Five times a day he watches them pray.

It is dangerous, in Afghanistan, and eventually Michael is shot. It isn't exactly a surprise: take part in enough fights, stay around when enough bullets are flying and it's only natural that a few of them will find you at some point. This time, three of them puncture his right shoulder and upper arm. There is no hospital, of course, no trained doctor to take care of the injury. Instead, Michael has Abu Waleed, a grizzled old veteran (in Afghanistan, in the mountains, forty is definitely old) who acts as the group's field medic. Abu Waleed was finishing his first year of medical school when the Soviets invaded the country in '79. Within a year he'd dropped out; the battlefield became his teacher, was where he'd gained his expertise. The man grins before he begins the impromptu medical procedure, assuring Michael, Marwan, of his skill. He had a friend from school, he says, Abdel-Hamid, who stepped on a mine a couple years back. The blast had badly shattered his left foot and it was Abu Waleed, of course, that operated on him. Not only did the friend survive, Abu Waleed boasts, he'd even managed to keep his knee! Impressive, no? And Michael smiles, weakly, nods, tells him to get on with it. The man iss true to his word, and Michael recovers fully save a few new scars.

In Afghanistan Abu Waleed asks one night, as they sit by a fire, if Michael is married, is told no, asks why not. How could I be? Who would marry someone like us? It would be unfair. It is impossible. The other man laughs. The trick, Marwan, is to find the right woman. Some women, yes, they need a man there, with them always, some women are impossible for us, but some? Some do not mind having fighters for men. Some even like it, he laughs. Many of us are married, have children, you see Marwan? You just have to find a good woman. And Michael's mind goes to Fi, his Fi, always Fi with her weapons and bombs, and he realizes it still hurts, thinking of her, so he stops. He grins, extricates himself from the conversation and goes over to his things. He occupies himself with cleaning his gun; when your weapon is almost as old as you are, it's important to keep it in good condition.

Another time he is doing surveillance with one of fighters, a young man by the name of Mustafa. Mustafa would barely be old enough to legally drink in the US, but here he is a veteran fighter: he was fifteen when he first picked up his dead father's gun. Somehow they talk about death. The young man is nonchalant. If Allah decides it is my time to die, he says, then I will die and become a martyr. If it is not then I will live, and continue to fight with honor. Some of them, the crazy ones, they look for death, ok, which I do not, but I don't fear it. It is in God's hands, no? La illaha ila Allah. There is no God but Allah, and we are in his hands, and it is for him to decide if we are to live or not, so why fear it? Why make yourself weak by going into battle fearing death? That is how we defeated the Soviets, you know, and why the Americans have such trouble. They come here with all of their weapons and then they tremble when faced with battle, tremble with worry that they will die. But we, we have Allah, and he will be good to us so we do not fear, we fight, we just act. You are like us too, I think, Mustafa adds after a few moments. Am I? Yes, you do not fight like an American really, not quite like us but you fight in the moment, like we do. And Michael thinks he can maybe believe that – of course, he always does try to survive, but when something needs to be done, really, what is the point of thinking whether you'll die doing it or not? You just try your damn best not to, is all. In Afghanistan, men can be surprisingly wise.

After a few months Marwan leaves the fighters. There is a mostly unsuccessful op trying to get access to parts of Waziristan, some run-of-the mill human-intel gathering from local sources, a couple of nasty shoot outs on the outskirts of this city or that. He spends almost twenty months in Afghanistan before the higher ups decide that the political situation has changed too much and that there are other, more vital things for Michael Westen to be doing. This time he hitches a ride on a military plane flying from Islamabad to Kuwait (a brief 'layover' that, because he is Michael Westen and his superiors are who they are, turns into an impromptu two week mission in Abu Dhabi), already dreaming of the little luxuries that would be his again after so long without: a long, hot, soapy bath, cold blueberry yogurt straight from the fridge, air conditioning. Maybe he'll have a chance to run into Sam Axe, exchange some 'proper' war stories and a few laughs. Michael grins, thinks of everything he is coming back to, and tries very hard not to think of the one explosive, beautiful thing he will still be without.

He is a spy after all; he has the life he has made for himself, and that isn't about to change anytime soon. He tells himself it's enough.


End file.
